Far Longer Than Forever - NEW
by lucycantdance
Summary: Theirs was the greatest love story of the Second Age, until they were forcibly sundered in the Battle of Dagorlad. In TA 2510, they're given another chance. But lost legends don't come back to life every day, and the return of one such legend causes a massive upheaval in Elrond's already disrupted life. Can they just pick up where they left off? Or has everything changed too much?
1. From Yesterday, Part I

**Timeline:** Iavas, Second Age 2510.  
**Universe:** AU  
**Chapter Rating:** K  
**Pairings:** past Elrond/ Celebrían, past Elrond/Gil-galad implied, kind of?

Welcome to the shiny, much-changed, much-improved version! Hopefully this will be the last major overhaul. (Famous last words!)  
For now, the old version is still uploaded on here. If you're interested, you can find it on my profile.

All recognisable characters belong to Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema and the Saul Zaentz Company.

* * *

_Mithlond_

The Hall of Kings was silent. A cold breeze swept through the grey stone corridor, threatening to extinguish the torch that Círdan held. The shipwright had woken from an unsettling dream that he did not remember and something had compelled him to come here. That same something told him to keep walking, foot in front of foot on the cold stone ground. Círdan avoided coming here as much as possible, and the only reason he stayed and gave into whatever it was that was propelling him along was that he felt that he was here for a reason. There was something that he needed to see. He was barefoot, and the torch he carried did little to dispel the pre-dawn gloom. He was alone, as he ever was in life, with none but his wolfhound Tirith for company. The dog padded along next to him, footfalls as silent as the shipwright's own.

Círdan recognised the section of the Hall that he was in and tried to stop walking, unwilling to go further; but his feet had other plans and slowly took him closer to his destination. A casket a few feet ahead of the elf was glowing slightly, surrounded by a faint blue aura. He knew it well, it was one of the few glass-topped caskets in this Hall, and was where they had laid High King Gil-Galad to rest.

Círdan's heart stopped as he drew closer and he realised why he had been called to this place.

The coffin was empty.

* * *

_Imladris_

The sun shone brightly in the clear blue sky, warming Imladris as the last of her inhabitants woke up. Despite the bright morning, and the fact that all of the curtains were open, the bedroom of the Lord of Imladris was dark and filled with a sense of impenetrable melancholy.

Glorfindel - who had appointed himself as Elrond's Protector Against Bad Dreams and worked from the west-facing window seat - looked towards the bed where the Lord of Imladris still slept. He was rarely out of bed before noon, and never in it before midnight. When he wasn't sleeping, he was working.

Being unable to fade due to his human ancestry, the half-elf saw that throwing himself into this blisteringly intense work schedule was the only way to forget the pain of Celebrían's departure, and the disappointment in himself that he felt at his failure to restore her to perfect health. He thought that working all night and sleeping all day was the only way to stop his pain and disappointment from consuming him, as Celebrían's pain had consumed her.

But Glorfindel could see what was really happening. Elrond was just running from his problems, too afraid of being hurt yet again to slow down and let them break over him and drain away like a wave, and he would never find peace until he did.

The Elda rested his head against the window, suddenly exhausted. When Gil-galad had died at the end of the War of the Ring, the King's place in Elrond's heart had slowly but surely been filled with Celebrían's friendship, and eventually, her love. But now she was gone as well, leaving a hole twice as big as the one she had healed; and so the list of people that Elrond had lost grew ever longer. It had gone far beyond coincidence now: Glorfindel could not help but think that this was some sort of conspiracy.

The silence of the room was broken when Glorfindel's stomach rumbled and he realised how long he'd been sitting there. Glorfindel stood up, stretching his cramped muscles, and looked towards the bed once more before sighing and reluctantly leaving his Lord's chambers to go in search of lunch.

What Elrond needed now, Glorfindel mused as he walked along, was someone to lean on for emotional support - someone who knew him even better than Erestor or Glorfindel himself did. Someone less like a brother and more like a... what? A soulmate? A twin? Both of those options were out of the question, and Glorfindel was at his wit's end.

_He's going to kill himself_, Glorfindel thought desperately. _Soon he's just going to burn out and Erestor and I will have no hope of saving him. Not that we have much of a chance now. Please help us. I don't know how; just please, someone, help us._

* * *

_Valinor_

Námo smiled knowingly to himself as he looked down on Imladris and heard Glorfindel's plea. Unbeknownst to the warrior, the situation had already been addressed. This was something he had wanted to do for a long time, but the time had not been right. Until now.

Námo's wife Vairë walked slowly up behind him and slipped an arm around his waist, resting her head against his shoulder. She regarded the enchanted mirror in front of him, and the two pictures it held, transcending space and time: on the right, the Lord of Imladris slept fitfully, alone in his bed in the mid-morning hours; on the left, a different dark-haired elf was peacefully asleep on a beach at sunset. Vairë smiled. It would make a good tapestry. Speaking of which...

"It is about time I had something joyful to put in my tapestries. I tire of weaving tragic scenes all the time."

Námo turned his head and kissed her temple. "From now on, you will have many joyful scenes to depict."

They turned back to the mirror and watched as both elves stirred, about to wake up and unknowingly begin a day that would change the course of their lives.

* * *

_Imladris_

In his dreams Elrond wandered far and wide, not bothered by hunger or weariness or pain. He was in a strange place where all the edges were blurred; there were white skies, and green grass, and black shadows that Elrond assumed were trees, but he could discern nothing else. He had no conscious idea of where he was going, but still he knew where to go, following an almost-invisible path which eventually led him to a place with no trees and no grass. The ground here was golden, the sky was blue, and he could vaguely hear the crash of waves and the calling of seagulls. There was a figure ahead, but the blurred edges made the person seem insubstantial. Whoever it was turned around, and though they did not have a face - just a swirl of blurred features - Elrond felt a jolt of recognition. He had no idea who it was, but he knew that he knew them, and that this place where they stood was special: many memories had taken place here. The other person seemed to be smiling.

Elrond tried to take a step towards his unrecognisable companion, but his legs were glued in place. He frowned, and his companion's smile dropped, along with the ground. Elrond felt himself falling, and heard a whisper in his ear, the whisper of a voice long-unheard.

_I'll see you soon._

_Who are you?_ he tried to ask, but he had no voice.

Elrond continued to fall, and with a jolt he awoke, drenched in cold sweat and breathing heavily. His mind went into overdrive as he tried to put a face to the voice, tried to place where he knew that person from, but the canvas of his brain was a giant blank. Getting his breathing under control, he passed a hand over his face and threw the covers back. He had half expected Glorfindel to be in the room, as he usually was when the half-elf woke up; but the Elda was not present and Elrond was grateful for that. Glorfindel would only ask him how he was, and Elrond could not deal with questions like that.

He grabbed some clothes for the day and headed into the bathroom to shower. The sooner he started this day, the sooner it would be over.

* * *

_Mithlond, later that day_

Círdan walked slowly along the beach at dusk, his thoughts preoccupied, as they had been all day, with the events of that morning. The coffin had not been damaged. The glass was untouched - and completely unbreakable, at any rate - and the clasps had not shown any signs of forced entry. Ereinion's body was simply _gone_.

"Who would steal his body anyway?" Círdan asked Tirith as the dog came lolloping back to him and deposited a stick at his feet. The wolfhound cocked his head and offered no answer.

"It's not as if anyone can ransom it," the shipwright continued, scratching behind Tirith's ears. "Why would anyone want to? And the only way the Hall of Kings can be accessed is by a door that needs a password. The only other people except us who know that password are Elrond, Galadriel, Celeborn and Mithrandir, and none of them are here, or have any reason to take it. Do you have any ideas?"

Tirith flicked his tail back and forth and panted.

"No? Hmm. Still a mystery then," Círdan said with a sigh. He picked up the stick and straightened up, groaning when his joints protested. He tossed the stick forward just as the breeze changed direction. Tirith had turned and was ready to go after the stick when he caught whiff of a new scent, and all of a sudden his ears pricked up and he tore off down the beach, barking loudly, the stick forgotten.

"Tirith! Come back here!" Círdan called. Tirith paid him no heed and shipwright had no other option but to hurry after his dog and wonder what in the name of Ulmo had gotten into him.

* * *

Ereinion Gil-Galad awoke to the bright light of the setting sun shining directly onto his closed eyelids. A weird cold feeling swept over him, from his feet up to his waist, and it took him a second to realise that he was lying on a beach with waves breaking over his legs.

His first thought was, _How much did I drink last night?_

Swiftly followed by, _How did I end up on the _beach_?_

After a moment he remembered that it had been a long time since he had had a corporeal body, and even longer since he had imbibed any kind of alcohol.

_Then how-? What-?_

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a dog barking, and he opened his eyes with some difficulty, squinting against the bright sunlight as he looked in the direction of the sound. He struggled to elbow himself into a sitting position, unused to the weight of a real, flesh-and-blood body, and had barely achieved it when the dog skidded to a stop next to him and started enthusiastically licking his face.

"It's not that I don't appreciate such a warm welcome, my friend," Ereinion joked between licks with a voice gravelly from disuse. He managed to push the dog away long enough to sit up properly and added, "But I think we should wait till we know each other a little better before we-"

He had been going to say 'take our relationship to that level', but broke off when his eyes adjusted to the light and he recognised the pale brown wolfhound that had been giving him an impromptu facewash.

"Tirith?" he breathed.

The wolfhound barked once in acquiescence, his tail wagging madly.

Ereinion's mouth fell open, and he looked around at his surroundings, barely believing it. But yes, this beach was familiar, and he recognised it with more than a tinge of nostalgia. Over there was the ornate jetty, and beyond that he could glimpse the masts of the ships docked in the quay. He turned to the other side and saw the magnificent towers of the Grey Havens, built all the way up the slope to the headland upon which Círdan's house proudly stood.

But wait...this could not be happening, not yet. Námo had told him that the matter of his rebirth would be discussed with the other Valar, and he would be informed of their decision when it was made. But he had not been told of any decision. In fact, he had not seen hide nor hair of any of the Valar since he had demanded that Námo send him back. Thinking he had made a mistake, Ereinion wracked his memories of the last week, thinking that perhaps he _had_ been told, but had forgotten. He discarded that thought straightaway. He would not forget being told something as important as that.

This all seemed to have happened too fast; he had been under the impression that it took years to be reborn - surrogate parents had to be found, and then the person returned had to go through a second childhood and reach maturity to regain the memories of their first life. That is how it had happened with Glorfindel. And yet here he was, fully grown, with all of his memories, as far as he could tell. It was as if his life had picked up straight from where it had stopped. Ereinion passed a hand over his face, overwhelmed.

Tirith suddenly moved a few paces away, and Ereinion looked up, his gaze following the wolfhound to alight on the form of one very surprised shipwright.

* * *

A few notes about my headcanon:

I believe that elven pets are, for the most part, immortal like their owners. Otherwise what's the point of an elf keeping a pet? The life of a normal domesticated dog or cat would be like the blink of an eye to an elf.

There's also a very in-depth thing about Ereinion's body and why the first portion of this chapter is necessary, but I won't get into it here. It's too long and it will be explained more in the third chapter.


	2. From Yesterday, Part II

**Timeline:** Iavas, Third Age 2510  
**Universe:** AU  
**Chapter Rating:** K+  
**Pairings:** past Elrond/Ereinion implied.

And here we completely leave behind the old storyline and venture fully into the new one. In other words, this chapter is written completely from scratch. Scary.

I remember that last time I kept promising that Círdan would be in the next chapter, and never delivered on it. So to make up for that, this chapter is full of him. You're welcome :P

_Otaro_ is an amalgamation of the Quenya words _Atar_, 'father' and _otorno_, 'sworn brother', therefore means 'sworn father' and is used for stepfathers, foster fathers and father figures. Further notes on this are at the bottom of the chapter.

* * *

_Mithlond_

Círdan stared down at the person sitting in front of him, shocked speechless.

_I'm dreaming,_ he thought. _Or hallucinating. This can't be real._

The shipwright remained frozen in place until Ereinion cleared his throat and said, "Hello, Otaro," and then looked up at Círdan with a smile so painfully familiar that it broke the spell. The bearded elf took a step forward and sunk to his knees beside the former king, his eyes filled with joyful tears.

"Ereinion?"

The reborn elf nodded, reaching a sluggish hand up to wipe at the moisture on Círdan's cheek. "Don't cry."

"How can I do anything else?" Círdan exclaimed, pulling Ereinion into a tight embrace, not caring about the awkward angle or the waves that continued to break around them. "What manner of miracle is this?"

Ereinion couldn't answer that question but sensed that Círdan wasn't really expecting him to. For many moments neither elf moved, both of them simply savouring the reunion and hugging out centuries upon centuries of sorrow and loneliness. They did not break apart until it started to get uncomfortable to sit on the beach in sodden clothes that were only getting wetter. Círdan helped Ereinion to his feet and supported him until his legs stopped wobbling.

"Alright?"

Ereinion took an experimental step, and then another, and nodded. The sea breeze was cold, bordering on freezing when it blew against his wet leggings and tunic, and he shivered. The shipwright noticed this and draped his own cloak around his foster son's shoulders. It was also quite damp from the waves but provided some relief and Ereinion smiled at him.

"Thank you. But don't you need it?"

Círdan raised an eyebrow. "Are you insinuating that I'm likely to need it more because my old bones can't handle a light sea breeze?"

"Yes." Ereinion replied without hesitation, grinning at his foster father. That earned him a light slap on the arm.

"Insolent youth," growled the shipwright, his bright smile belying his words.

Tirith, getting tired of the lack of attention being paid to him, pushed between the two elves, slobbering on Ereinion's hand.

"Bleugh!" Ereinion mock-glared at the wolfhound. "Thank you."

Tirith looked up at the reborn elf, all innocence. Ereinion just sighed and wiped his hand on his leggings, and then scratched the dog behind his ears as they walked along. Tirith panted happily, pleased with himself at the fact that his plan had worked. As the small family made their way up to Círdan's house, the shipwright talked about the changes that had happened to Mithlond since the end of the Second Age, explaining how they had improved the city as advances in technology were made. Ereinion listened with interest, curious about what had happened during his absence. It was too dark to see the changes Círdan spoke of, but the shipwright promised to show them to Ereinion in the daylight.

They took the path up to Círdan's house that had been cut into the mountain as opposed to the slightly less steep path that ran through the city, in order to avoid townspeople with prying eyes and wagging tongues. Ereinion's presence would be revealed eventually, but Círdan understood without being told that the former King would need a few days to re-accustom himself to life before his reincarnation was revealed. Ereinion smiled at his foster father in wordless gratitude when they bypassed the turn for the road through the city and he realised what Círdan was doing for him.

By the time they reached the shipwright's front gate Ereinion was mostly used to moving in a corporeal body, but he suspected that his legs would punish him for the steep hike in the morning. He was a little out of breath and his legs were starting to protest, but he welcomed the burning ache. It made him feel alive. Círdan held the front door open for him and Ereinion gratefully stepped into the bright warmth of the house. As the sun went down the wind had only grown colder and Ereinion, who was no longer used to the realities of Arda's weather, felt as if his bones had turned to ice.

Ereinion looked around Círdan's front room, smiling at the fact that it had not changed since the last time he saw it. There was a fire glowing merrily in the hearth and he made a beeline for it, hanging Círdan's cloak on the hook by the door as he passed. Ereinion sat down on the hearth rug and held his hands out to the blaze, and was accosted a few moments later by Tirith, who seemed to be unaware that he was too big to climb into Ereinion's lap anymore and attempted to do so anyway. Ereinion put his arms around the wolfhound's neck and leaned down to kiss the top of the dog's head. Tirith turned his head and nuzzled Ereinion's cheek, and it seemed he was saying _I missed you_.

"I missed you too," Ereinion murmured, rubbing the dog's neck. He looked up as Círdan appeared at his side.

"You can either have dinner or a bath first. Which would you like?"

Ereinion thought about it for a moment, and then decided on a bath. Círdan nodded as if he was expecting that, and went to run one for him. Ereinion dislodged the great fat lump on his lap enough to free his legs, and stood up. Tirith looked up at him and whined, affronted at being moved. He had been quite comfortable. Ereinion laughed.

"You're aware that I'm not your bed, aren't you?"

Tirith barked as if to say _No_. Ereinion laughed again.

"Some things never change. Come on," he jerked his head in the direction of the stairs and climbed them, heading up to what had been his old room. It, like the rest of the house, was largely unchanged and Ereinion was hit with a sudden wave of nostalgia and déjà vu. It was strange to be back here after so long, in this room that had never changed when so many other things had.

Ereinion knew without having to ask that what had been his Imperial Capital at Forlond was now little more than a slightly-larger-than-usual fishing village. Neither his sister nor Elrond had taken up the throne and so the city's population dwindled, some inhabitants moving up to the mountains of Ered Luin, some travelling east to Imladris and Lothlorien, and others heading to Mithlond to stay or to sail. Círdan's seaside city was now the largest settlement and central hub of what remained of the realm of Lindon.

Ereinion briefly wondered what had happened to the palace, but it occurred to him that he didn't really care. He lived there for most of his life, but he never really got attached to it. This small room, in Círdan's honest, simple house was home. Ereinion had been an adult when they fled to Lindon, but the shipwright had built this house to be an exact replica of the one they'd shared in Balar, and so the former King did feel like he was back in his childhood room. The only difference was that the room contained a normal bed, not the boat-shaped one that Círdan made for him when he was a child. The room still had blue walls, soft, sand-coloured carpet and gauzy grey curtains. His quilt cover still had little ships embroidered on it.

Ereinion picked up the matches from that were on his dressing table, just inside the door, and lit the lantern hanging from the ceiling. He walked over to the bed and turned to face the window, then let himself fall backwards, arms out flung, to land on the mattress. The stars painted on the low ceiling had faded somewhat, but the gold paint still glimmered in the soft light. Tirith leapt up onto the bed next to him.

Yes, this was home, in a way that his palace in Forlond, with all of its luxury and extravagance, had never been. If he had ever considered that place to be his home, then it was not because of any sentimental attachment to his quarters, but the person he shared them with.

The same person that he had shared the master suite of Imladris with.

The former King's treacherous mind tormented him with the thought that maybe Elrond had shared the master suite with Celebrían, too, and it took some effort to squash that thought. Even if that did happen, Ereinion thought, he did not have the right to be angry or jealous. It was Elrond's life, Elrond's house and Elrond's rooms and he could share them with anyone he wanted.

But no, they hadn't been Elrond's rooms, had they?

…_"Here, Ereinion, take a look at these and tell me what you think."_

_The King looked up from the blueprints that Aratorë had given him to look at the ones in Elrond's hand. They were designs for an apartment, and a very beautiful one at that. There were swirling, intricate designs laid into everything from the bedposts to the ceiling cornices, with a colour scheme of seafoam green and muted blue with white and gold trim, and beautiful dark mahogany wood for the furniture. The apartment would be on the very top storey of the main house, with a large balcony that would boast a spectacular view over the city, the waterfalls that ran into the Bruinen, and the valley beyond._

_"These are gorgeous! Are they the plans for your rooms?" Ereinion asked, looking up at the half-elf who was biting his bottom lip and still managing to grin. Elrond shook his head._

_"No. _Our_ rooms."_

The former King came back to the present with a shaky breath, and sat up, willing all thoughts and memories of Elrond out of his mind. Tirith whined, sensing Ereinion's sudden shift in mood. The elf patted him on the neck in reassurance.

"I'll be fine as long as I don't think of _him_," Ereinion told the dog. Tirith's ears flicked back and forth and he yawned. Ereinion chuckled. "You stay here. I'm going to go and check on my bath."

He arrived at the bathroom just as Círdan was about to leave it.

"Ah! Perfect timing. Your bath's ready, I'll just go and get you some pyjamas. Leave your clothes on the bench and I'll put them out to wash."

He disappeared into the hall, closing the bathroom door behind him, and Ereinion began the arduous task of undoing all of his clothes with the sluggish fingers of a long-uninhabited body. After what seemed like at least a month he was down to his undershirt, and wondered why on earth tunics had to have so many buttons. He deposited his shirts onto the long side of the L-shaped counter and flexed his fingers, hoping that he would regain his dexterity soon.

He had just pulled his undershirt off when Círdan re-entered the bathroom.

"Your clothes are all packed away so you can just borrow a pair of my pyjamas for toni-" the shipwright turned after placing the pyjamas next to Ereinion's sodden clothes, and his words trailed off when he caught sight of Ereinion's back. "By the Valar..."

Ereinion looked over his right shoulder at Círdan's quiet exclamation, one eyebrow raised in question. "What?"

The bearded elf took two steps forward, brushing a hand over the uneven skin on the left side of the former King's back. Ereinion suddenly realised what he must be seeing, and wanted to view the damage for himself. He moved so he was standing in front of the mirror on the short end of the counter, took a fortifying breath, and turned slowly to the right so that he could see his left side.

He immediately wished he hadn't. The entire left side of his back, from the side of his neck, down past the upper half of his arm to below the waistline of his leggings, was covered in a plateau of twisted, puckered skin, the remnants of his violent death at Sauron's hand. He toed off his boots and shucked off his leggings, twisting to see that the scar ran down the back of his leg, ending just above his knee, and spread halfway across his left buttock as well.

He dimly remembered having twisted away from the fire so that his front was spared the brunt of it, but it had burned so hot and so fast that it didn't need to spread that far. It scorched straight through his armour and the cloth underneath, licking at his lung like it was sugar, and in some other places devouring enough skin and muscle to reveal bone. He had turned to save his face, but the fire caught on his hair and ate half of it away before he could even fall to his knees. As soon as the fire disintegrated his left lung he was as good as gone. Not even Elrond could have healed an injury like that.

Ereinion realised that he had closed his eyes and was gripping the sides of the basin for support against the force of the memory. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes again, forcing himself to look at the scar. It was his reality and he had to get used to it.

The fact that Sauron's fire was too intense and short-lived to spread that far meant that the scar did not spread very far either. It was not small by any stretch of the imagination, but if Ereinion stood front-on, not even the very edges were visible. It was long, but not very wide. He held his left arm across his body so he could see the scarred part in the mirror, and ran the fingers of his right hand across the uneven skin.

Círdan cleared his throat, catching Ereinion's attention. He attempted a lighthearted tone, but didn't quite succeed. "Alright, come on. You can finish ogling yourself later. Into the bath with you, before the water gets cold."

The former King wordlessly complied, pausing only to remove his socks and put them with the rest of his clothes. The water was still wonderfully warm and he climbed in, luxuriating in the feel of the liquid against his skin and relaxing as the heat soothed his aching, disused muscles.

Círdan took off his outer robe, leaving only leggings and a simple shirt. He picked up the little footstool from the corner of the room and brought it over to the head of the bathtub, fetching a silver cup and a washcloth on the way. He dropped the washcloth in the water. "Here, you wash yourself and I'll wash your hair."

He then took the wide, rectangle shaped bucket from the top of the stool and placed it on the floor, then sat down on the stool. He picked the shampoo bottle up from the floor where he had placed it earlier, and began the task of washing Ereinion's long hair.

Ereinion picked up the soap from the ledge on the side of the bath, lathered the washcloth and did as he was told. Círdan gathered Ereinion's hair so it all hung out of the bathtub, dipped the cup in the water and poured it over the strands, letting the excess water run into the bucket, to be tipped out later. He had to drape Ereinion's hair across his legs to prevent it from touching the floor, such was the length. His leggings would end up sodden, he knew, but he was unconcerned. As a shipwright constantly exposed to sand and the sea, he had always favoured simple clothes that could be easily replaced if they happened to be irrevocably damaged over the course of his day.

The bearded elf rinsed the shampoo out of Ereinion's hair, and glanced at his foster son to see that Ereinion had evidently finished washing, as he was now dragging the washcloth idly through the water, just underneath the surface. Círdan smiled.

"You need a little sailboat."

Ereinion laughed. "I was just thinking the same thing. It's strange to be in the bath with you washing my hair. I feel like a child."

"You _are_ a child," Círdan immediately countered. It was a long-running joke between them that no matter how old Ereinion got, he would always seem little more than an elfling to Círdan, who was one of the elves who had awoken at Cuiviénen.

Ereinion sighed in resigned amusement. "You know what I mean."

Círdan reached for the comb on the bathtub ledge. "It seems like only yesterday that you were a small child, cast adrift from everything you'd ever known. And yet it was so very, very long ago."

Ereinion had no answer for that and so was silent. Círdan finished combing Ereinion's hair and got up to fetch some towels. The former King stepped out of the bath - completely unconcerned about his nakedness in front of the elf that raised him - and let Círdan wrap one towel around him. The shipwright briskly dried Ereinion off, largely ignoring his foster son's protests that he was capable of doing it himself.

When his protestations fell on deaf ears Ereinion resigned himself to his fate and allowed himself to be dried like a child. He did not mind, really. It was beyond wonderful for Círdan to be fussing over him again. Círdan towelled the excess moisture from Ereinion's hair, and the younger elf put on the soft grey pyjamas that Círdan had brought in for him. They made their way back down to the kitchen and were joined in the hallway by Tirith, who always knew instinctively when it was mealtime.

Círdan fed the wolfhound and then fetched cold chicken, bread, cheese and some jam for his and Ereinion's supper. "I'm sorry that I don't have anything more fancy or substantial for your first dinner," he said as he set the food on the table. Ereinion waved the apology away.

"It's fine. Believe me, this looks like an absolute feast."

Ereinion tucked in with gusto, and as they ate, Círdan, judging it too late for heavy topics, told him about all of the ships he had built over the last Age: their names, how they sailed and what happened to them, as well as the various improvements that had been made in shipbuilding. The former King, having been raised by Círdan, loved sailing like a true shipwright's son, and listened happily. When they finished eating, Círdan made tea for them both and they relocated to the front room to drink it, still discussing ships. After a little while Ereinion was unable to contain his yawns and Círdan trailed off with a fond smile.

"I think it's bedtime."

"Mm," Ereinion agreed sleepily. "I think it is too. Sorry, you were in the middle of telling me something."

The bearded elf shook his head. "It's alright, I'll tell you tomorrow."

Ereinion nodded and followed his foster father back upstairs. He took a detour back into the bathroom to clean his teeth, and by the time he re-entered his bedroom Círdan had lit a fire and turned the bed down for him. Tirith was sitting in front of the fire. Ereinion let the shipwright tuck him in, and as soon as that was done Tirith abandoned his position on the hearth in favour of one on the bed next to Ereinion.

"You can't stay here," Ereinion said to the dog. "If you sleep here then Otaro will be lonely."

"No, he can stay," Círdan said. He sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed Ereinion's hair away from his face. "We walk the same shores once again, my child. I don't think I will ever feel lonely again."

Ereinion smiled, eyes bright with sudden joyful tears. "It's so good to be back."

Círdan leant down and kissed him on the forehead. "I will see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Otaro."

"Goodnight, _Hâlpen_."

Círdan stood up, extinguished the lantern and then paused in the doorway to look back at his foster son once more. Ereinion was already sleeping soundly and the shipwright smiled, feeling for the first time in a long time that nearly everything was all right in the world.

* * *

_Hâlpen_ means "little fish".

**Re: **_**Otaro**_ - I've always thought that Gil-galad would view Círdan as a kind of foster father (I'm not entirely sure about the actual canon but in my headcanon he lived with Círdan from a _very_ young age), and Círdan would likewise see Gil-galad as a son. I suppose that since Círdan is Telerin he would have an aversion to Quenya, but I'm an Ereinion-son-of-Fingon person (I am aware of HoME canon but blatantly disregard it) so Quenya was probably little Gil's first language and therefore the one he defaulted to.

In the next chapter we will discover the significance of the first portion of the previous chapter and Ereinion will learn what happened to his body after he died.


End file.
